


amo (amas, amamus)

by rhien



Category: Carry On - Rainbow Rowell, Fangirl - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms, Simon Snow series - Gemma T. Leslie
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Baz is Not Evil, Depression, Fangirl-era canon, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Past Child Abuse, Slow Build, angry make outs, dramatic vampire reveals, promised for the future too:, sleepy kisses and cuddles, some reference to suicidal thoughts, though maybe not as many as planned, troubled!Simon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-30
Updated: 2015-10-05
Packaged: 2018-04-23 20:41:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4891522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhien/pseuds/rhien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Have you ever done this before?”<br/>“Yes. No.”<br/>“Yes or no?”<br/>“Yes. Not like this.”<br/>“Not with a boy?”<br/>“Not when I really wanted it.”</p><p> **</p><p> It's 7th year at the Watford School of Magicks.<br/>Simon Snow is fine.<br/>(If you call falling apart “fine.”)<br/>Baz Pitch is fine.<br/>(If you call secretly being a vampire and having a hateful, impossible crush on your Chosen One roommate “fine.”)<br/>Clearly a casual, meaningless physical relationship will solve everything.<br/>(Right?)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story has been in the works for a year and a half. (!!!) I had a thoroughly Cather Avery moment recently, because I really, really wanted to finish it before I posted it, and to post it before Rainbow Rowell’s _Carry On_ came out (OCTOBER 6TH AAAAAA), but that’s not to be. I decided it would bother me more never to post it at all, or to post it after _Carry On_. So here we go.... 
> 
> I’m rating this M, though it's slow moving — the rating may change. This story deals some with sexual themes specifically, so it was never going to be G or anything.... If anyone is uncomfortable and wants chapter by chapter warnings or ratings, please let me know. 
> 
> The “really wanted” conversation in the header and later in the story, comes out of _Fangirl,_ by Rainbow Rowell, who of course, owns (most of) these characters. If there is a bit of conversation or a reference that seems really familiar and you think it's out of _Fangirl,_ trust me, it is totally out of _Fangirl,_ and it is totally on purpose. 
> 
> **Finally, and MOST importantly:**
> 
> More than thanks go to my brain-twin, karakurakid, who was not my beta—she was my idea partner and sounding board and rock every step of the way, and this fic would not exist without her. 
> 
> So, so many thanks for beta reading and/or general cheerleading, enthusiasm, and enabling (and patience with whinging) go to [damecatoe](http://damecatoe.tumblr.com), [knightinbrightfeathers](http://archiveofourown.org/users/knightinbrightfeathers/pseuds/knightinbrightfeathers), [Magicalmaladies](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Magicalmaladies/pseuds/Magicalmaladies), [steadfastasthouart](http://archiveofourown.org/users/steadfastasthouart/pseuds/steadfastasthouart) and [RainyForecast](http://archiveofourown.org/users/RainyForecast/pseuds/RainyForecast).
> 
> I am SO GLAD to know you all.

_It doesn't make sense, he sometimes thinks after he wakes, as he fights back adrenaline, horror, frustration. He's had worse dreams, objectively speaking. He has worse dreams all the time. (And he hates the recurring ones. Sometimes they're not just dreams.) There are so many different nightmares, but this one is always the same._

_Dark, then flaring light, then a room full of mirrors, a carnival hall like the one a foster family had taken him to once when he was five. Mirrors all around, but they're all broken, and they're all empty. He's alone, not a reflection for company, not even a shadow, and something is approaching, giggling, and there's a slow, hollow thok, thok, thok sound with it, somehow familiar, altogether ominous._

_He's alone. (He wasn't always, he somehow knows. But they left. Everyone left.)_

_He can't fight it. He doesn't have his sword, or a wand, or arms to wield one. He can't see himself, or feel his body. He wants to beg or scream but he doesn't have a voice either. His edges are bleeding out into nothing. Closer—closer—dread building till he's sure it will crush him—and he looks up, and he gets only a glimpse of his own face in the mirror before he wakes up gasping, biting on his hand to keep from crying out._

 

##

**SIMON**

 

Martin Potts was open, but Simon had a good shot for the goal, so he took it. A sharp kick, just the right angle, and the football flew over the grass, past the goalie’s fingers (one of the Coopers, Simon still had trouble keeping track), and into the net. _Red wins again_ , Simon thought, but he was tired and couldn’t quite muster up a grin.

Behind him there were cheers and groaning both. It was just Saturday morning pick-up ball, but some people took this stuff seriously. And as Red had won the last three matches….

“Again,” snarled Baz, behind him, and Simon turned to face his roommate. More out of habit than actual concern; Baz wouldn’t try to start something in front of all the other students. Probably. Though it wouldn’t be the first time. Baz’s black hair was sweaty, half pulled back into a ponytail, with flyaway strands everywhere, and he plucked at his blue over-jersey, fanning his flushed face and neck.

His grey eyes were flashing and determined, but the Blue captain, Kenneth Moss, was already shaking his head.

“It’s pointless,” he snapped. “Time for _you_ to sit this next one out, Snow.”

Simon snapped his head around, staring. He noticed that Baz scowled at the words, but there were mutterings of assent from most of the players in blue.

Maggie Sangster, the Red captain, laughed. “First you whine we have to play gandry-rules to make it more fair,” she said. “Now it’s all because _we_ have the Mage’s Heir that _you_ can’t get yourselves sorted? Don’t be such a baby, Moss.”

“Shut it, Sangster. You’re supposed to rotate your players anyway.”

Maggie looked pointedly at the sparsely-seated benches at the side of the pitch. “Not my fault everybody’s studying this weekend.”

“Just bring somebody else in, Sangster. Or maybe you just know you have no chance without him….”

“Hey!” said Martin Potts. He was a short, slightly tubby sixth year, and he looked rather like an indignant chipmunk, with those cheeks. A chipmunk with a mustard-colored pork-pie hat, slightly crushed. Ridiculous, but Simon supposed he couldn't help his instrument being a hat.

Simon stopped listening to the bickering and rubbed at his sticky forehead, lifting his fringe. Sweat stung the sore on the base of his thumb. It was only September, but the quiet morning air already felt hot after all the running about the pitch on the Great Lawn. He looked up at Watford, at the moat, at the walls of the fortress—thick stone walls. Strong and protecting. Supposedly.

Most of the others were looking awkwardly away, but he still felt their attention like staring eyes. Beginning of a new year, and nearly everyone felt like strangers again. Not Baz, of course – at least his animosity was constant. Not Penelope, but she was holed up in the library this morning, with Agatha. And thank Crowley, thank Yeats, thank any gods there were that Agatha was still speaking to him this year, even after that debacle of an attempt at dating last year, the end of sixth year. He couldn’t afford to lose one of his only two friends, especially when the two of them were roommates. What had he been thinking?

A lull in the conversation around him drew Simon’s attention back. It seemed Blue had come out on top; Maggie was rolling her eyes. “Fine. But you’d better lose your best player too, if you’re so invested in this even teams thing.” Posey and Warwick and Talia, all wearing red, called out in agreement.

Everyone looked at Baz, who immediately started to protest. “This is ridiculous. It’s only my second match, and Snow is hardly the Red team’s ‘big guns.’” Here Baz hooked two fingers in the air, exaggeratedly. “Possibly their magic feather….” He sneered at his roommate.

Simon was done with being talked about as if he weren’t even standing here. “Forget it, it’s fine, I’m done for today anyway.” All he’d wanted to do was burn off some energy this morning, to try… but even that was too much to ask, it seemed. He pulled off his over-jersey and headed for the sidelines.

Behind him, Maggie said, “Go on then, Pitch. By all means, let’s be _fair_ about it.”

Martin Potts, though, had followed Simon to the bench where he was dropping the jersey into a box and picking up his wand. “You don’t have to go, Simon,” he said, and he sounded almost sorry. “We’ll thrash them this round too, and then they’ll have nothing to whinge about, will they. You can play next—”

Simon cut him off, shrugging. “It’s fine, Martin.” He added as an afterthought, “Thanks, though.”

“Are you sure?” Martin extended a hand, putting it awkwardly onto Simon’s shoulder.

Simon shrugged again, sidestepping away from the touch. “I should probably study, anyway,” he said ( _lied,_ as if he cared about studying lately, what a joke), and strode off toward the locker room. Martin called something behind him, but Simon wasn’t listening, didn’t catch it.

Strange, that. It was _almost_ like Martin was being… friendly. For no obvious reason. Strange. But Simon wasn’t really interested in new friends—he had a tenuous enough hold on the ones he already had.

Simon shook his head at himself. Agatha. Simon knew he should’ve known better than to even try proper dating, especially with someone who was actually his friend. Luckily, he’d come to his senses early, only about three dates and a few kisses in, and somehow managed to scrape up the nerve to tell her it was never going to work out, that he didn’t want to ruin their friendship and lose her, that he was sorry. He’d been shaking weirdly, expecting her to yell, or throw a curse at him, or at the very least to slap his face. (And what he would do without her as an ally, without her help in a fight, like the mirror-magic with the selkies; or scrying for the blades; or the killing blow she’d landed on the third of the hares last year, _that_ had saved his skin… maybe that was what the shaking had been about?) But she had shaken her head, and run her fingers gently through his hair (which felt so nice that he had been tempted to rethink the whole breaking up thing), and told him not to worry. “We don’t have to be together just because people have been waiting for it since fourth year,” she said. She had seemed all right with it, _still_ seemed all right with it, talked to him like nothing had happened.

But he couldn’t shake the conviction that it was just a matter of time before it blew up in his face. Then Agatha would turn her back on him, and Penelope… well, Agatha was her _roommate,_ and she’d known Agatha far longer than she’d known Simon. They’d all known each other longer than anyone had known Simon.

Simon pushed down the familiar, dull anxiety, and noticed another strange thing—he could hear Baz just a little behind him, stomping up the hill toward the locker rooms. Baz in a snit wasn’t particularly strange—but _hearing_ him was. Because Simon was certain (about 94% certain, as he told Penelope when she pressed him about it) that Baz was a vampire, and he normally moved so quietly. Normally he took absolutely _gleeful_ advantage of that fact: in sneaking up on Simon and startling him, in standing silent and _watching_ him for who knew how long at a stretch, in filching Simon’s favorite candy bars, on the rare occasions that Simon managed to get his hands on a couple of them… Simon gritted his teeth at the thought.

Simon had started to suspect the whole vampire thing back in fifth year, when he’d followed Baz around, convinced he was plotting something. Crowley, he’d just _cared_ so much then. He and Penelope had done a ton of research, about how real vampires differed from the movie versions, about how they could sometimes be surprised into revealing themselves through “heightened emotions and/or unexpected pain.” He had had plenty of fistfights with Baz over the years, though, and never seen so much as a hint of fang.

And no one ever turned up drained at Watford, or in Norbeck, the village down the road. If Baz really was a vampire, and Simon was pretty sure about that in spite of the lack of carnage, then he was keeping a shockingly low profile. Simon knew he should probably check news reports and such in Wiltshire, where the Pitch estate was, just in case Baz was somehow saving his bloodlust for summers, but he just couldn’t be bothered, anymore. He had bigger problems to face than some dysfunctional vampire.

Still, he thought, as he pushed open the heavy outside door, it wouldn’t hurt to confirm it, if he could. And this might be the perfect opportunity; Baz was clearly already furious with him.

So he dropped the door right in Baz’s face.

 

##

**BAZ**

 

Baz stomped up the hill behind his roommate, fuming. Moss and Sangster—idiots, both of them. It was all completely idiotic—blaming Snow for their loss, as if being the Mage’s Heir automatically made him some sort of paragon of football athleticism. As far as Baz was concerned, they should both have been allowed to stay in; he couldn’t annihilate his roommate at football if they sent him off the pitch like that. And now he couldn’t even play anymore this morning, because Simon Snow had to sound all casual and uncaring and volunteer to leave instead of pointing out the injustice of it all and refusing to go…. It wasn’t like they would kick _him_ off if he had insisted on playing. Unlike Baz himself, _apparently,_ not that he was bitter. Except that he was completely bitter, and who did they think they were?

Baz had half a mind to drag his roommate back out there, because surely Simon wasn’t as unruffled as he wanted to appear; it wasn’t fair to him either….

Any lingering sympathy he might have had disappeared quickly though, when Simon abruptly let the heavy outer locker room door slam shut right in Baz’s face.

“Oi!” Baz exclaimed, banging the door open, but Simon didn’t even stop, just walked to his locker on the far side of the room.

Baz set his jaw. _I will not be petty about this, I will not,_ he grumbled to himself, and stomped over to his own locker, a few feet away from Simon’s, and wrenched it open with a clang, tossing his wand inside. There was just the barest chance that it had been an accident, and Baz could certainly be the bigger person about this.

Though sometimes he didn’t know why he bothered, glaring as he sat on one of the slatted wooden benches and started to unlace his football shoes. Simon was dropping his wand into that ratty knapsack he always carried everywhere, was wearing the purple sport uniform shorts but only a plain t-shirt with it, instead of the standard white polo with the Watford symbol (three stars over crossed wands) over the left breast, like Baz did. Baz wanted to roll his eyes. Simon was always misplacing things, especially lately, including pieces of his uniform, and all right, this was just a Saturday morning pick-up game, but didn’t he have _any_ pride in his appearance? Did he always have to look so… so rumpled and mussed and… and…

Baz thought of Martin Potts down on the sideline, clapping Simon on the shoulder. Everyone was so chummy with him, so casual; to be fair, Simon rather encouraged it--always calling everyone by their given names all the time, whether he knew them well enough for that or not.

Baz gritted his teeth. Simon always looked so… so _touchable_ —for everyone else, everyone but Baz. Which was just monstrously unfair, considering that he was the one who had to live with the git. He was the one who had to endure his constant presence, that absurd hair, those clear eyes, and all right, that fit arse, his legs and body still all solid and compact, in spite of the height he’d gained in the last year or two… and his smell. Pine and golden light and something like _caramel apples_ , for Crowley’s sake—it was bloody ridiculous.

Baz shook his head slightly, trying to clear it. Simon Snow might be unreasonably attractive, Baz surely wasn’t the only one to acknowledge that. Certainly, he would probably be a fantastic snog….

 _If he weren’t such an inconsiderate snob who can barely be bothered to speak to me when we’re not fighting,_ he thought.

Not to mention being the classic, square-jawed hero, and approximately 150% straight, as far as Baz knew.

If he weren’t that miserable Mage’s protégé and therefore obligated to hate all Pitches.

If… if….

_If he wouldn’t stake me as soon as look at me, if he knew._

That was the real crux of the matter—in the last six years, Simon Snow had slain more monsters than you could shake a stick at, if rumors were to be believed. As a rule, Baz didn’t give rumors any credence, but then again, he _had_ actually helped Simon fight the chimaera third year, so it wasn’t _all_ bollocks.

And when one was secretly a vampire, trying to pass as human, one couldn’t take any risks.

So Baz was perfectly aware that this crush he’d had for at least two years was not only pathetic, but also impossible, and it made him want to shake himself by the scruff of the neck till he got his head straightened out.

That had yet to work.

Every few months, Baz promised himself he’d go out and get himself a proper boyfriend. He was perfectly attractive, nearly eighteen years old and he should be able to find a casual relationship somewhere, something to take his mind off things… but that had yet to work either. Mostly because realizing, while he was kissing Ioan or Raj or whoever, that he’d so much rather be kissing Simon… it was not only unendurably pathetic, but also uncomfortably unfair to Ioan or Raj or whoever.

( _Maybe_ , said a little voice in his head, _maybe you just don’t really DO casual._ )

( _Maybe you should SHUT UP,_ he told it.)

Thus the self-shaking. Which wasn’t working.

Perhaps if he just spent a bit more time with Simon, he could get unjustly dismissed from a few more football games, have Simon slam (literal) doors in his face… maybe _then_ he could get past this preposterous infatuation.

As if they didn’t already spend more than enough time together.

Why couldn’t he just get over this?

“What the bloody hell are you muttering about, Baz?”

Baz looked up and curled his lip. He hadn’t meant to be ranting aloud to himself, even in a whisper. It was a bad idea. And Simon looked dangerously curious.

It was so much more satisfying to complain aloud, especially when he knew it drove Simon up the wall. But he wasn’t going to talk about his pique over heavy doors, and he definitely wasn’t going to talk about the whole I-fancy-my-stupid-roommate problem. Which left the other injustice of the morning.

“Oh, nothing, Snow. What would I have to be muttering about? It’s certainly not like I was just unfairly barred from playing a little friendly football this morning, all because of my bloody git of a roommate.”

Simon scowled. “I didn’t… it’s not my fault.”

Baz snorted. “I don’t expect you to answer for Kenneth Moss, but you didn’t have to give in to his idiocy. However much you may enjoy the backhanded compliments—”

“You think I enjoyed all that?” Simon’s tone was impressively incredulous.

“Didn’t you? You could have said something. You could have protested.”

Simon’s jaw clenched, and he spoke through his teeth. “People don’t listen to me.”

Baz scoffed. “They do nothing _but_ listen to you, Snow.” He pulled off one shoe and waved it in the air, dramatically. “You can say or do anything, you can walk around with a scowl on your face all the live-long day, and all your friends and admirers just smile and sigh _indulgently._ It’s revolting.”

To his surprise, Simon gave a short, if bitter, laugh. “‘Friends.’ What friends?” He shook his head. “I thought you were clever, Baz. I thought you were _observant._ ” Surprise must have shown on Baz’s face, because he continued. “As if I have any real friends besides Penny and Agatha.”

“And whose fault is that?” Baz lashed back more out of reflex than anything. Uneasily, he was realizing that Simon had a point—the kid really didn’t have many friends, certainly not people he actually looked like he felt comfortable with. Even harmless Martin a few minutes ago… Baz’s memory replayed that, noticing this time the stiff way Simon sidled away from him. And that wasn’t the first time, was it. (That Baz watched him closely enough to know this, now that he thought about it, wasn’t the point.) But still— _‘Not observant.’ I’ll have you know, I’m plenty observant._ It was sometimes the only thing Baz felt he could actually claim, that wasn’t about wealth or magical talents or enhanced vampire abilities.

So, stung, Baz put on a mocking tone and went on. “Oh, poor thing. It must be so _hard_ to know that every person at this bloody school would love to kiss up and follow you around and be your best mate.”

“Except for you.”

“Except for me,” Baz snapped. Lied. But never mind that. “They couldn’t care less if you’re nasty and snobbish and immature. Because you’re the Mage’s Heir. They’re _always_ willing to give you another chance, Snow. They’re practically obligated to. You needn’t pretend you don’t love it.”

Simon was staring at him, his hands opening and closing, seemingly unconsciously. “You really think I enjoy this?”

Baz shrugged, lined up his second shoe on the bench next to him. “Some of us don’t get those kinds of second chances, you prat. Or we wouldn’t.” _Some of us would be hunted down if we let people see the truth._

The other boy had begun pacing a little—just a few steps back and forth, and Baz wasn’t even sure he’d heard what Baz had just said. “You really think it’s so great being the Mage’s Heir?” Simon said, and then slammed the side of his fist into one of the lockers. “Well, it fucking _sucks._ All people do is stare at me, stare and whisper, and they don’t actually listen to anything I have to say, they’re too busy… busy assuming they already know. They all think they know me. They know what I _should_ say, what they _expect_ me to say, and do, and I….” For just a moment the rage in his face gave way to a look so _lost_ that it made Baz’s throat go tight, just looking at it. “I’m tired, and they never leave me _alone_ , everyone knows what I should be doing, and they’re ready to let me know, too. They all want something from me—not even from me! They want something from the bloody _Mage’s Heir_ , because he’s so _talented_ and _special_ and _chosen_ and… and I just….”

Baz stared in astonishment, and a whirl of confusion, as Simon’s voice trailed off. He wasn’t sure he could even take in everything Simon was saying. He didn’t know what to make of the bitterness in Simon’s voice, of the tension that showed in his every movement, of the way he didn’t even seem to _see_ Baz. Just like always. It was like Baz had to be actively insulting him to get even a scrap of acknowledgment, had to be hitting him to ever get to touch him… and that was all kinds of screwed up. Baz knew that perfectly well.

But it didn’t mean he could resist it, even when he knew it would just result in more shouting and maybe even a thrown punch or two. “Well,” he said, in as condescending a voice as he could muster, and he’d practiced enough to know that it was nerve-meltingly condescending, “‘they’ are all idiots then, because _I_ know you’re nothing special, Snow. You’re just a normal, ordinary, bratty child and certainly no better than the rest of us.”

This was the point in their fights when Simon would normally charge at him in a rage and try to pummel the shite out of him. When they would start beating their frustrations and aggressions into one another, until Baz started to alarm himself with how much he wanted to thump some sense into Simon, how much he wanted to pound his face into the wall until it was bloody…. And then he would have to hold back, cast a shield spell, do _something,_ and that usually meant ending up in worse shape than when he started….

But instead, Simon turned, looking startled, as if he’d forgotten Baz was even there. His eyes seemed to focus on Baz for a moment, his face flushed from pacing and ranting, and there was something odd in his expression…. But Baz wasn’t sure what it was, and the next second, Simon dropped his gaze and muttered something that made Baz go cold with wariness.

“You’re hardly one to talk about being normal, Pitch.”

 

##

  **SIMON**

 

“You’re hardly one to talk about being normal, Pitch.”

Simon had muttered it, under his breath, but Baz went very still for just a second, sitting on the bench where he was unstrapping his shin pads. “What is _that_ supposed to mean, Snow.”

Careful, Simon thought. He was supposed to be making Baz angry, not tipping him off about what Simon was trying to find out. He wasn’t supposed to be getting so angry himself. He didn’t know what was wrong with him, why he started going on like that, why he had almost said…. He didn’t know why he just wanted to _say it,_ say it all. Why would he want to tell _Baz_ any of this, why should he care if Baz understood the truth? Nobody really did, and that was how it was always was. He knew that, and there was no reason he should want to talk about any of it, and definitely no reason to feel so inexplicably odd when Baz said the last bit, about Simon being _normal_ , so he straightened his back and put on a smirk.

“Fine, you’re right, Baz. You know everything, of course. It’s really wonderful. And you’re just jealous.”

“Jealous.” Baz spat the word, his eyes narrowing again.

“You just want to be me.” He stepped closer, using the opportunity to loom over Baz in a way he never could, normally. An idea hit him suddenly, another button to push. “Or maybe you just want me.”

Simon had expected Baz to fly into a rage at the very suggestion, or perhaps just to laugh mockingly—he certainly hadn’t expected the red blush that spread across Baz’s cheekbones. Nor the tiny, pleased twist in his own stomach: _really? does Baz really… about_ me? He pushed that thought away, harshly, as soon as it surfaced. It certainly didn’t _matter,_ except where it might be another thing to goad Baz with.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Baz was already saying, snidely, as he pulled off his pads and laid them on the bench beside him, neatly, next to his shoes, but his cheeks were still pink, and he wouldn’t look at Simon.

“You’re a rotten liar, Baz,” Simon said as scathingly as he could manage. “You probably have some list, you’re just waiting to check me off it—”

“A _list?_ ” Baz was incredulous. “You can quit projecting your own weird little fantasies onto me any time now, Snow—”

“—Like you think if you shag the Mage’s Heir you’ll _finally_ have won somehow—”

“And if you think I care in the least about your precious Mage and your precious title—” Baz was up now, standing in his stockinged feet, exerting the influence of his three inches of extra height. His face was twisted in anger, and his fists were clenched at his sides. They were barely a foot apart.

“I don’t think you care about anything else,” Simon shot at him. _Now, a surprise,_ he thought, and instead of throwing a punch like he would have normally, he stomped on Baz’s toes with one cleated foot.

Baz gave an abbreviated howl of pain, and then—victory. Just faster than Simon’s eyes could track, Baz grabbed Simon’s arms and pinned him against the wall of lockers. He saw fangs gleaming, bared, and Baz’s eyes…. Simon looked away, just like all the books said to. A vampire’s gaze could put you into a trance, could control you or paralyze you or any number of other, ill-defined-but-ominous things, or so the books claimed.

Vampire. It _was_ true. In spite of his former certainty, a shiver still crawled up Simon’s spine. Being right didn’t feel as good as he had hoped.

“Satisfied?” Baz’s voice was low and vicious, his eyes narrowed and almost glowing behind long dark lashes that Simon could suddenly see every detail of. “Is this what you wanted to see?”

Simon, trying to avoid his gaze, stared instead at his mouth, his lips and the hint of teeth, at the long line of pale throat down into his half-open shirt. _Vampire, vampire… what was I thinking?_ Panic flashed in Simon’s head for a moment, so bright he could hardly see, and he tried to jerk away, tried to turn or wrestle or twist, drop down to the floor so he could roll over and run… but though he could feel the cords in his neck straining, every muscle in his arms and shoulders pulling and contracting, he could barely move at all. Baz’s grip on his arms was like cold stone, holding him immobile, and finally he sagged, letting Baz’s strength hold him up, breathing hard.

Simon felt something inside him give. He leaned his head back and simply looked, straight into Baz’s eyes, gleaming silver. But he didn’t feel any particular compulsion, or even fear. Mostly he felt weary.

“Is this what you wanted?” Baz hissed, and his hands tightened. “Tell me, Snow.”

Simon didn’t know what he wanted. _I never know…_ He felt almost numb. But he opened his mouth… and felt vaguely bewildered at the words that came out.

“Just do it,” he whispered, his voice hoarse and almost defiant. He lifted his chin, turned his head just slightly, not breaking the gaze. “Go on. I’d rather it was you anyway.”

Muted tendrils of thoughts that he had always tried to suppress whispered between Simon’s ears: _It’s just a matter of time. The Humdrum, goblins, monsters, a vampire. What’s the difference._ And then, even smaller: _at least Baz will make it quick._

He didn’t really want to think these things, or feel the sneaking relief that came with them. He didn’t really want to feel anything. His head seemed to float, detached, and his breathing was shallow and quick as he waited for Baz to lean in closer, waited for the sharp pain of teeth in his neck….

Baz closed his eyes suddenly and took a deep breath, several of them. Simon felt a tremor run through him, saw him run his tongue over his upper teeth, behind his lip, and then felt the grip on his arms start to slacken. He felt a sudden rush of what felt weirdly like disappointment. Or a little relief? Or perhaps it was desperation and shock. That made far more sense. What on earth had he just done, what had he said? Maybe he _was_ under vampire-trance, though it didn’t feel like it. _And now Baz knows that I know…._ Crowley, Simon hadn’t thought this through at all. _What now?_ He had to be sure that Baz would really let him go. And obviously Simon couldn’t break away with brute strength.

But maybe he could shock him into it.

So Simon craned his neck and kissed Baz as fast and hard as he could. Luckily, it seemed Baz’s fangs really had retracted, because their teeth clacked together, and when Simon shoved his tongue against Baz’s, nothing cut him.

Baz let go instantly, hands flailing away, his eyes flying open in surprise, but Simon wasn’t about to lose the upper hand. He grabbed at Baz’s grass-stained polo and pushed him backwards, against the bank of lockers on the opposite wall.

Baz made a muffled, angry sound into Simon’s mouth, but Simon just grinned and shoved back with his tongue. He pulled on Baz’s shoulders, pushed up on the balls of his feet and pressed his body against Baz’s, all the way down: sweat and grass stains and dirt, lean muscles and poking, bony hips and knees.

For two seconds, Baz didn’t seem to know what to do with his limbs, with the whole situation. Then he gasped a little, and his hands were on Simon’s neck and face, sliding up into Simon’s hair, tipping his head slightly for a better angle on the kiss, rubbing the pads of his fingers firmly into Simon’s scalp.

It felt surprisingly good. It felt like Baz wanted to touch him—apparently Simon had been right earlier, about Baz wanting him. It felt… well, lovely, really, and Simon couldn’t have that, so he bit down hard on Baz’s lip, and abruptly dug his fingernails into his back. Baz yelped, pulling his head away, and Simon laughed. Maybe that part wasn’t such a brilliant idea.

“What are you playing at, Snow?” Baz snarled. He grabbed the front of Simon’s shirt and flipped them around, slamming his back into the nearest lockers. Ouch.

Baz grabbed Simon’s throat with one hand, banging his head back against the metal with a hollow clang, and for a moment Simon almost panicked again at the strength in his grip. Then he found he could still breathe, could swallow past the cool webbing of skin between thumb and forefinger against his adam’s apple. And noticed that Baz’s breathing was unsteady at best.

Simon grinned, though he knew it was his grin that Penelope called ugly. He could still regain the control here.

He snaked a hand around, and jerked suddenly on Baz’s shirt, instead of pushing away. Baz stumbled slightly, ending up close, off balance, nearly pressed up against Simon.

“It’s fine, Baz, I know you hate me. Doesn’t mean we can’t….” He tipped his hips up, pressing into Baz’s, and wanted to laugh at the hiss of breath from his roommate.

Baz stared at him and said, “You… I… hate you,” and his voice was so odd; it wasn’t a normal declaration, and it wasn’t a question exactly, but maybe that was because he was too busy panting to be bothered with proper inflection. He shook his head then, looking bewildered. “But I’m a—” He swallowed hard, seemed unwilling to actually say the word. “You saw.” Then he looked questioningly at Simon, with a sort of realization and something almost like concern; the hand on Simon’s throat was looser now. “Snow, why did you… you said to… you said, ‘just—’”

Simon cut him off; he didn’t at all want to think about that. About his words or that empty relief…. “I’ve known you were a vampire for years, Baz,” Simon said, scornfully. To distract him. “What do I care? You’re a pathetic one. Not a single bloodless body anywhere around here, not even a case of mysterious blood loss in all the years we’ve been here. You’re not _my_ problem.”

“Nice to know you’ve been checking up on me,” Baz said, sourly, but he still looked suspicious.

“I’ve known forever,” Simon repeated. “If I were interested in turning you in, I would’ve done it long ago. Maybe I’m interested in something else now.” He let his gaze linger up and down Baz’s body, and smirked deliberately up at him. Baz had never been hard on the eyes, which was just as well, since this might be the only way Simon would be able to get out of this alive. He didn’t feel particularly alarmed at the idea one way or another, just practical.

Baz’s eyebrows shot up. “You hate me,” he said again, flatly. Simon didn’t bother to point out that he had it backwards. “So why would you—”

Simon shrugged, speaking almost idly. Anything to convince him. “At least hate is… is something real,” he said, cocking his head to one side, trying to gauge Baz’s reaction. He grinned again. “And, well, I was just trying to wind you up before. At least I know it’s not the Mage’s Heir that you want.”

Baz’s nostrils flared, and his lip curled slightly. “Certainly not.”

Simon grinned wider, an almost real one this time. “So there you are. Why not?”

Baz looked doubtful, frowning.  

“What’s the matter, Basilton? Scared?” And Simon pushed Baz’s arm to the side and snogged him again, roughly.

Again, for a moment, Baz seemed too surprised to fight back. But then he apparently decided he wasn’t going to just surrender; he fumbled against Simon, nails on one hand digging into Simon’s waist, the other first dragging at his shoulder, then shoving up into Simon’s hair and clenching. And between kisses he growled at him disconnectedly, through his teeth. “Snow, you are just—the most maddening—”

Simon snorted and flipped him around, pushed him against the lockers—

“—arrogant—”

—Pressed his chest into Baz's and shoved his tongue into his mouth again.

“—self-righteous—” Baz pulled back enough to glare at him, even as he grabbed at Simon's hips, his fingers slipping on the loose, slick fabric, which just made Simon want to laugh nastily. _I'll have to do better,_ he thought, amused and annoyed at once.

“Don’t you ever shut up, Baz?” Simon asked through a smirk, and ran his tongue along the base of his neck. When a shaky groan was his only response, he snickered, and did it again, tasting salty sweat and grit and something….

There was a slight difference in skin texture here, a long, ragged line, but very faint, barely visible, even from this close… oh. A scar. It started just before the pulse point at the base of Baz's neck and stretched back, disappearing into the back of his collar.

 _Oh Crowley,_ Simon thought, staring for just a second, realizing. And then, without thinking, he dragged his teeth firmly over it, slowly, back to front.

Baz gave a strangled whine, high-pitched and obviously involuntary, and his knees buckled. Simon wasn't ready for it, and they both half-slid, half-fell to the floor. Simon hit his knee, and he was practically in Baz's lap, but he kept his mouth, his teeth, on the base of Baz's neck, maybe a little harder than he meant to, what with the falling and all. Baz's feet scrabbled on the tile, pushing his back against the wall.

“Ss—ss—” Baz was hissing—but as if it were the beginning of a word. _My name?_ Simon wondered for just a moment. _And... which one?_ He stomped on that thought as hard as he could—as if he even cared—and scraped his teeth over the faint scar again.

"Ss-stop." Baz's head was tilted back, and his voice was a gasp. A gasp with panic in it? His hands clutched the front of Simon's shirt, somehow pushing Simon away and pulling him in at the same time.

Simon stopped, pulled back slightly. "All right," he said, next to Baz's ear. "All right." Baz's eyes were closed, and he was taking shuddering breaths. What was even happening? Simon had to do something to salvage this whole thing.

"All right," he said again, and kissed his mouth again, slower, more inquiringly. Baz just let their lips move together for a minute, and then Simon felt a cool hand creep up to the back of his neck, and Baz seemed to fall into him, tongue and teeth and long breaths, and the slightest undertone of a whimper.

Simon was getting distracted, a little blurry-headed himself. He had to get a grip; he couldn’t let this go too far. He didn’t know how long he was going to have to keep up this whole snogging-his-roommate thing, and, however good a kisser Baz was, Simon couldn’t risk too much too soon. Baz might get bored, might decide it was better to just get rid of the threat, the person who knew his big, blood-sucking secret. Simon just had to get back to the safety of the dorm room, figure out what to do next.

As little as he could possibly get away with, that was how these things always worked best anyway.

“Someone’s coming,” he said softly, though he’d heard no such thing.

“What?” Baz’s voice sounded practically drunk. His eyes opened slowly, long lashes blinking, his eyes cloudy grey and warm, as hazy as if he didn’t know where he was.

“Sorry,” Simon said, pulling back, adjusting the collar of Baz’s shirt a bit. Slowly, like he didn’t think Baz might stop him, Simon got up and took a step away.

Baz just sat there, back pressed against the lockers and hands pressed against the floor, his chest rising and falling, staring up at him. Simon stepped back again ( _carefully, carefully_ ) and ran one hand through his hair, grinning a little. He grabbed the strap of his bag and said, “See you back in the room, then.”

And then, because he couldn’t resist, he winked, and left. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Illustration here,](http://franuary.tumblr.com/post/150820760820/its-criminal-that-there-isnt-more-fanart-from) commissioned by the delightful [franuary](http://franuary.tumblr.com) and drawn by the talented [sadfishkid](http://sadfishkid.tumblr.com)!
> 
> I'm all aflutter!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Nobody had ever known before. Had ever kissed him, knowing. Had ever touched him, knowing."

**BAZ**

 

Baz just sat on the floor, dazed, and watched Simon leave. With a wink. A wink!

Had he somehow stumbled through a chaos portal this morning? Everything had stopped making sense the minute Baz had walked into the locker room...  

He didn't know quite how long he sat there, trying to scrape his thoughts back into a shape that resembled language—he only knew when he heard people approaching the outer door that he didn't want to be caught like this. So he scrambled to his feet—and now he noted that his left toes hurt like blazes, where that demented bastard had stomped on them—grabbed a towel and raced into a shower stall where no one would see him looking so... discombobulated.

The hot water felt good on his back, felt grounding, even if it did make his sore toes throb. He wiggled them—probably not broken. He dropped his chin and let the water stream over his head, his hair, the back of his neck.... His hand strayed up to the base of his neck and touched there, lightly—

“Hey Basil, is that you in there?” It was Dev's voice, echoing off the bath tile. He must've come in from the pitch with the other boys Baz could hear talking by the lockers—four or five of them, by the sound of it.

“It is.” Baz rubbed the side of his neck, ran his fingertips over the scar, and scowled. The only reason he wasn't blushing was that the water was already so hot. _It's not weird,_ he told himself. He’d just been surprised. He wore shirt collars that rubbed just there constantly, it wasn’t some kind of freaky erogenous zone, or a button that made his legs automatically give out every time or anything. It wasn’t weird. It wasn’t weird to like somebody kissing your neck—everybody likes that, Baz scolded himself. It was just that... nobody had ever noticed before. Not servants, not family, not friends. Not even Killian back home, and they had dated for three months, technically.

Nobody had ever known before. Had ever kissed him, knowing. Had ever touched him, knowing.

Knowing.

Baz felt cold again, in spite of the still-hot water streaming down over him. He knows. Simon _knows_. Oh gods, gods, ancient gods, what am I going to _do?_

(Sometimes they livestreamed vampire “trials” online. He’d made the mistake of watching some of them, and now... _visions of standing chained before the Coven, of his wand being snapped in three pieces and burned, of guards marching him away to one of the Pits, of his father’s and stepmother’s and little siblings’ faces, forced to watch…._ Baz gritted his teeth and tried to breathe, shoving away the mental images ferociously.)

Dev was talking again, thank Crowley. “How come you're still in here?” Baz could hear his locker slamming open, even over the spray of the water. “They kicked you off the pitch ages ago… which was completely unjust by the way, and I think we should complain.”

Baz took deep breaths of steam _(don’t think about all that, don’t)_ and decided not to respond. What was he going to say? _I was detained—my roommate decided to assault me, and then found out I’m a vampire (oh, and so sorry I haven’t mentioned that to you or Niall either), and then proceeded to snog me till I could hardly breathe... so yes, I was a little slower than usual getting into the shower._

No, he wouldn’t be saying any of that.

Luckily Dev didn't seem to require an actual response. He was already chattering away—Dev _was_ rather inclined to chatter—about something else. Homework? Baz couldn’t focus, his thoughts racing.

It was impossible, so impossible… maybe he was still in bed. Maybe this was just another dream. (Or nightmare?) It would hardly be the first time he’d dreamed about kissing his roommate, though this had been rather more realistic than those usually were….

This _is_ real, Baz told himself fiercely. There was nothing to be gained by doubting his own sanity. Especially—he grimaced—with the evidence of his sore toes, and his lips that still felt puffy. So now he just had to figure out what the bloody hell Simon meant by it, and what to do next.

Simon _claimed_ he didn’t plan to turn Baz in, claimed he didn’t care… but what would Baz have to do to keep him quiet? What _could_ he do? He thought of Simon offering his neck and shuddered. _That isn’t what I want,_ he thought. _Definitely not._

Dev was still talking, now from the next shower stall, from the sound of it. “… and what about the presentation for Sir Bleakley? Niall chose patterns of medieval magic under feudalism but I don’t know about that, it seems a little broad, don’t you think?”  

Baz made a brief, acknowledging noise and tuned him out again.

Why had Simon kissed him? Angry kissing, no less. (Or at least mostly.) Was it some kind of trick, a prank? Baz couldn’t see how that would work, even if there had been cameras all over the locker room. (Ugh, what a thought.) Baz scrubbed his hair—he’d forgotten his caddy of soaps out in his locker, but he barely winced at making do with the bottle of shampoo someone had left behind in the stall—and tried to think back to the actual events.

Remembered how tightly he’d been pressing Simon against the lockers at first, fangs out; how Simon had struggled in vain to escape. Maybe… maybe the kissing was just a surprise tactic? It certain had been a surprise, had made him let go. But then… Simon could have run off, could have left, could have grabbed his wand and immobilized Baz somehow. Instead he’d… kissed him again.

Why would he do that, why?

It was hard to believe, not least because Baz had been telling himself, for _years_ now, that it would never happen. For years now. Constant enemies for six full years, six years of needling and _now_ suddenly Simon wanted to snog him right into the wall? Albeit violently. But why now?

Something was off, and not just a little off. Starting with that ugly, calculating grin. Simon saying “At least hate is… something real.” Not even to mention that moment… Simon lifting his chin, baring his neck, for Crowley’s sake… what had that been about? “Just do it”?

Ironically, it had had the opposite effect Baz would have predicted. He had felt so shocked that he’d been able to ignore the pain in his toes and get himself back under control. Instead of staring longingly at Simon’s throat, all he’d been able to see was the startlingly flat look in those vivid blue eyes.

And then he’d suddenly been kissing him, and what in all the faery hells was Baz supposed to think about _that?_

Besides that he wanted it to happen again.

 _I shouldn’t be thinking this._ Baz shook his head at himself till the water droplets flew from his hair. He couldn’t think about the feel of Simon’s soft lips, about his smell that was supposed to washing off in the shower, about his hands hooking around Baz’s shoulders and pulling him close. _Stop_ , he told himself, but when had he ever listened where Simon was concerned?

He had to focus on the danger. _Simon knows, and what am I going to do about it?_ If he really had known for years, and he hadn’t done anything yet… what did that mean?

And that wink at the end. What did _that_ mean? Did Simon… was that flirting? Did he want to do this again? And if he did… and what if Baz refused? Baz closed his eyes, rinsing his hair and snorting. (As if that was an option. Baz tried to imagine telling Simon that. “No, I don’t want to kiss you, Snow.” Those words, in that order—they didn’t even make sense.) But if he really did want to keep up with… with the snogging, if that was the price of Simon’s silence…. _Well, there are worse bargains to make,_ Baz thought, though his stomach twisted oddly, uncomfortably.

Baz spun the shower knobs to off, but then merely stood for a moment, dripping. He didn’t want to get out yet, didn’t want to face Dev and pretend that nothing had happened. Even if appearing cool and unfazed was supposed to be his specialty. Also, he’d forgotten his change of clothing.

But Dev was already out there, still talking, and so he wrapped his towel around his middle and stepped out.

“Ah, there you are,” said Dev, who was already half-dressed. “What took so long?”

Baz shrugged. “Where did Niall get off to?” he asked, deflecting. Dev and Niall were as close as most _normal_ roommates, though some people liked to laugh about their mismatched appearance. Nobody was laughing when they faced them in dueling practice, though—huge, bear-like Niall, and short, quick Dev. They made a good team. Which was… as it should be. The way roommates were meant to.

Dev made a face. “Eh, he hurried off. _Cordelia_ wanted to talk to him. Or shout at him, more likely.”

Baz nodded absently. He didn’t really approve of Niall’s girlfriend either, but he couldn’t think about that effectively right now. 

If that was even what Simon had in mind, and it seemed fairly ludicrous to even contemplate. And what else could Baz do? Money? Baz’s pocket money every month was hardly enough to ensure silence from a six-year-old about a broken china plate, let alone something as dire as this…. Besides which, he knew Simon. Back in fourth year, he had once begrudgingly offered to pay for Simon’s lunch while they were on a group seaside trip, and Simon had taken offense so fiercely that it was difficult for Baz to imagine money being an option here.

There was nothing… well. _There are always alternatives,_ whispered the back of his brain. _Simon Snow lives a dangerous life, he has plenty of enemies. People who might poison him. Spells gone awry. Or just some kind of “accident” out in the forest…._

Now Baz really did feel sick.

“Basil?” Baz looked up, at the reflection of Dev’s face in the mirror over the sinks. His hands had paused in the midst of putting some sort of product into his short black hair, tousling it into spikes. His dark eyes were startled, concerned. “Are you alright? Your breakfast not sitting right or something?”

“Fine,” Baz said shortly, pulling on his shirt to hide his face, and then turning away to attend to his hair. He didn’t quite look himself in the eye in the mirror. (Vampires not having reflections. He only wished.)

He should be shocked at himself. He would never get away with anything like that anyway: this was the Mage’s Heir, for Crowley’s sake, and everyone knew about their rivalry—but just thinking it… this was _exactly_ why he’d always been so careful to keep it a secret. Because the alternatives mostly revolved around him acting as monstrously as everyone expected a vampire to do. As monstrously as he tried so fucking hard not to do.

He thought about warm blood dripping off his fingers, like when he caught squirrels in the forest, rats in the catacombs. Thought about it being human blood for once, and his stomach lurched. With desire, and with disgust. _STOP,_ he thought, with more success this time, and buckled his belt.

Dressed at last, Baz concentrated on tying his shoes and keeping his face impassive.

Simon had started it. He’d pushed Baz, and then kissed him, and… and this was all his fault. They would have to talk about it.

In their room.

Crowley. This couldn’t end well. There was no _way_ this was going to end well.

Dev was watching him now, a little more attentively than he would’ve liked. “So,” Dev said, tucking his instrument into his shirt (a jade pendant on a chain around his neck). “We’re supposed to meet Niall in twenty minutes to work on the mystical Latin and Greek translations. Want to go there now?”

“I… I have to go back to the dorm first. Something to do in the room.”

“I’ll come with.”

“No! No. I’ll meet you. In the Hall of Discourse, yes?”

 

##

**SIMON**

 

When Simon was sure Baz wasn’t following him out of the locker room, he picked up his pace till he was practically running. Back to the room, back to the room… the Roommate’s Anathema would protect him there, and he could try to make some kind of plan.

On the stairs up to the dorm, he nearly ran right into Penelope at the third landing. He pulled up just in time, but her foot slipped, and he had to catch her, since her arms were full of books and folders and papers. Only about a quarter of them fell to the floor.

“Crowley, Penny,” he said, settling her securely and then bending to pick things up. “I thought you maxed out your library card yesterday.”

“Professor Benedict gave me an extension note for a few more.” Penelope sat on the lowest step and flipped her heavy red braids back over her shoulders. She balanced her remaining load on the side of the stone steps, where the stone was even rather than worn to a gentle curve from centuries of feet passing, and held out her hand with its large purple ring, murmuring. The loose sheets of paper flew back into her hands, and she frowned at them and began reordering.

Simon shook his head, gathering books. “A few,” he snorted.

Penelope rolled her eyes behind her cat-eye glasses, smiling. Then she looked at him more closely. “I thought you were going to play football this morning?” Her voice was careful.

He’d promised her he would do that today. Take some time, do something he enjoyed. Ha. “I did. Some.”

“Some?”

He shrugged. “They decided it wasn’t fair for the Mage’s Heir to be on just the one team, so. I left early.” He cut off the beginning of her frown with finality. “It’s fine.”  

“But you haven’t showered.” Her freckled nose wrinkled. “And you didn’t even change your shoes….”

“I’ll use the hall bathroom.” He handed her one of the books— _A History of Diplomacy, Treaties, and War Amid the Seven Faerie Kingdoms,_ for Crowley’s sake, Pens, hadn’t they had enough of that last year?—which was a mistake; Penny saw his hand, the reddened, chapped sores on the heel of it, around the base of his thumb. Probably worse than the last time she’d fussed over him.

“Simon—”

He snatched his hand away. “I just need to get back to the room,” he glanced behind him, “soon.”

She looked over his shoulder, down the empty staircase around them. “Why?” When he said nothing, her voice grew warning. “Simon. What did you do?”

Arguing with that voice was only putting off the inevitable. “Well…” he said, slowly. “I _might_ have provoked Baz in the locker room….”

“Oh, Simon. Were you fighting again?”

He held his face still. “Not exactly.”

“What does that mean?”

Gods, they definitely weren’t talking about those details. Not yet. “Let’s just say… remember all that research we did fifth year?”

Penelope’s brow wrinkled for a moment in confusion – well, it was true, Penny was _always_ researching something – and then her eyes narrowed slightly. “Yes.”

But now Simon clamped his jaw shut. Idiot. If _he_ was in danger because of knowing Baz’s secret, he couldn’t possibly let the same happen to Penny.

But it was already too late. Penelope’s brown eyes went wide behind her glasses. “Are you telling me we were right about—about him?” she hissed in a whisper. Simon looked away, refusing to answer, but for Penny of course that was answer enough. “What happened?” she demanded in a low voice. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine, Pens,” he said impatiently, then urgently: “But don’t say anything. If Baz thinks you know….” _You’d be in danger,_ he thought. Too much danger.

“But he _knows_ that you know,” she protested. The papers lay forgotten in her lap. “Doesn’t he? What happened?”

“We were alone, and he was pissed off at me, so I decided to see if I could… I stomped on his toes.” Penelope winced. “Well, it worked. Fangs, all that. I was right.” He hurried on. “So now I just need to get back to the room, where the Anathema’s in force, and then I can figure out what to say next.”

Penelope was gaping at him. “Simon… what are you going to say? What are you going to do? How did you even get out of that locker room alive?”  

He shrugged. “Don’t worry Penny. I have a plan. I have… something Baz wants.”

“You do? What?”

Simon didn’t answer.

“Simon….”

“It doesn’t matter, Penny. It’ll be fine.”

“Fine! He’s a—” She stopped and closed her eyes for a moment. Her fingers were tight around the book Simon had handed her. Simon could see her knuckles whitening, and he suddenly remembered that her father had disappeared when she was ten. That no one knew what had happened to him, and some people whispered about vampires, even though she said there was no evidence of that. Blaming vampires was pretty popular.

Penny opened her eyes. “I don’t know if we can handle this ourselves. Maybe you should just….”

“I’m not going to—” Simon started vehemently, and then stopped. Swallowed. “Do you really think I should turn him in, Pens?”

Penelope hesitated.

“He’s my _roommate,”_ Simon said. “I know we’ve never…” _bonded, been friends, tolerated each other_ “but we’re _supposed_ to. The Crucible cast us together and all that shite, and even if we’ve never…. The Mage will have to turn him over to the Coven. They’ll take him away… they’ll probably kill him. I can’t—” _Why can’t you?_ Simon asked himself. _Just because of some meaningless kiss?_ It wasn’t that... but he didn’t have a proper answer. He opened his mouth again and was surprised to hear himself say, “It’s not as if he asked for this. However it happened.”

Penelope blinked, and put a hand up to her forehead. “Gods,” she whispered. “It was probably in the nursery attack, back when his mother died….”

Simon hadn’t even thought. But everyone at Watford knew that story, about the last headmaster, who died trying to save all those children in the nursery when vampires attacked it, looking to turn mage children and steal them away. (A couple little kids had died in the aftermath, but none had been taken.) And everyone knew that it had been Baz’s mother. There was a minute of silence every year on the anniversary, and candles in morning assembly.

Simon had never talked to Baz about it. Simon knew Baz had only been four or so when it happened. They didn’t talk about most things, not if they could help it, but Baz didn’t seem particularly interested in talking to anyone about it. He had watched Baz nod solemnly when students or teachers would offer condolences, had seen his jaw tighten and his cheeks pale just a little more. And now… it looked as though she _hadn’t_ been able to save all of them.

“He’s never hurt anyone, not that way, not that we know of anyway,” Penelope said, finally. “I don’t _want_ you to… I’m just worried. Now that he knows that you know.”

“Well, don’t be,” Simon said, trying to sound confident.

Penelope gave him that same careful look. “Aren’t you worried?”

Simon shrugged.

Her voice was edged with incredulity. “It doesn’t bother you that a literally bloodthirsty creature knows that you could out him at any minute? And might decide to do something about it?”

He looked away. “I can handle it.” Then he turned to her where she sat on the steps and crouched down till his face was level with hers, her familiar, round, freckled face, a little scrunched up with concern (and for _him;_ he would never understand that, though after six years he did finally believe it), and caught her brown eyes with his blue, letting his gaze bore into hers. People said it was impressive when he did that, and if so, he needed it now. “But Penny. Don’t let anyone know that _you_ know, okay? Not Agatha, _nobody._ I can’t….” He dropped his eyes at last. “I can’t have you in danger like that.”  

“Simon—” She reached toward him, but he turned his face away and stood, stepping back. (Too soft, too soft. Simon didn’t like soft things. He wasn’t allowed.)

Penny let her hand fall. “Simon… just be _careful_. If Basil thinks you’re threatening him, he could be… unpredictable.”

Simon nodded, and continued up the stairs, to the room. _Unpredictable. Oh, Penny, if only you knew…._

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I… I thought maybe we were going to pretend it didn’t happen.”  
> “Why would we do that?”  
> “Now, now, Snow, denial can be very useful.”

**SIMON**

 

Simon’s steps sped up as he neared the door of the room, till he was almost running. He unlocked it with the touch of his hand and a muttered _open sesame_ , and slammed it behind him, pressing his back against it, calming the prickle between his shoulder blades with the feel of solid oak against his spine.

Was this fear?

_Am I afraid? Of… of Baz?_

He stepped away from the door, rolling his shoulders and throwing his knapsack onto the foot of his bed. He knew he probably should be. Afraid. The Roommate’s Anathema wasn’t really full protection—all it meant was that if one of them were to hurt the other inside the confines of the dorm room, the spell would raise an alarm and the perpetrator could be disciplined, likely expelled. Normally, that threat was enough to enforce some kind of civility while they were studying and changing and sleeping. But this was high stakes—this was Baz’s life on the line. And Simon’s, potentially, for that matter. If Baz decided to run for it, decided he was going to leave school anyway… well. Simon would just have to keep him from panicking, that was all.

Easier said than done. Simon’s stomach felt all twisted up with nervousness. It was unpleasant, but in some ways it was… exciting. A relief from the weight of gray blankness that was almost all Simon had been able to feel for weeks now. So many things he _should_ be caring about… but it was too much, he was too tired, and mostly he just couldn’t.

He knew he should probably be afraid of what Baz might do, might say—and yet when he thought about it, his mind strayed to odd things… to Baz, a weedy thirteen year old, dodging fire and poison breath from the chimera, back in third year, fighting by Simon’s side. To the oddly soothing sound of Baz’s light snoring, especially recently, on nights when Simon woke up from yet another bad dream, gnawing on the heel of his hand in his sleep, and then lay there listening, stuffing the largest joint of his thumb further into his mouth, biting down, to keep quiet.

To the feel of Baz’s hands pressing him up against the lockers, not an hour ago, how he was strong enough to hold Simon up against them, and that odd look in his eyes just before Simon kissed him, the first time... The feel of Baz’s fingers in his hair…

…and no, nope, Simon didn’t have time for this. He knew he should be making a plan, but he was no good at plans anymore, anyway. He’d just have to see what happened once Baz got here.

What to do until then? Simon looked around their room, at his own side of it, while he took off his cleats and tossed them in the general direction of the wardrobe. Desk stacked with books that he hadn’t cracked in days, unmade bed, pile of unwashed clothes, wardrobe door ajar. It wasn’t terribly messy, just a little cluttered, and yet it felt somehow unkempt, neglected. Baz was always sniping about the mess (his own side was pristine, of course), so obviously Simon wasn’t going to start picking up right now.

There was always homework, always, biology and maths and Latin (repeating it _again,_ the summer lessons hadn’t helped enough) and Magickal Historie, just for starters, but he couldn’t muster up the energy to care, let alone focus. Even a book or a comic sounded like too much effort. He couldn’t remember what he used to like doing. For a moment, he thought of his old red rubber ball, the little one he used to hide in his palm and bounce incessantly off the ceiling or the walls in the orphanage and the foster assignments. He hadn’t thought of that ball for ages, didn’t think he’d seen it since before Watford… lost. Like most things.

He chewed on his lip for a few moments, still straining his ears for the sound of approaching feet, but there was nothing. Well, he had to play it casual. Didn’t want Baz arriving and thinking Simon was waiting anxiously. He took a breath and his eye caught on Baz’s iPad, charging on his desk. Simon grinned, feeling that daring kick in his stomach again. (The back of his mind observed that he used to feel like this before a quest, or a mission, even before classes. All that felt like a long time ago, though.)

Simon picked it up and turned it on (Baz still hadn’t added a password, what an idiot). Dried sweat and dirt were tacky on his skin and clothing, but he threw himself onto his bed anyway, and opened that one app Penny and Agatha were always playing (Simon only had a shitty little flip-phone mobile that could just barely handle texting), a magician-made one with puzzles and mazes and saving little kittens from vampires. Ironic, considering, but at least Simon could do this: lean back and pretend to be relaxed while his skin thrummed with nerves, and save a few pixelated baby cats from a pixelated death.

He didn’t have to wait long, thank Crowley. Simon did no more than peek as the door handle rattled, but he could see tension pulling so tight in Baz’s shoulders, his whole body, really, that he almost seemed to scuttle into the room, closing the door carefully behind him. His pale cheeks were just slightly pink, presumably from the hot shower, and his hair was still wet, slicked back, widow’s peak even more pronounced than usual. He was wearing a clean white polo shirt with the Watford logo (permitted by the dress code on weekends), collar open, and khakis, his sport bag over his shoulder.

Eyes still mostly on the screen, Simon noted that Baz stopped short for just a moment, presumably taking in the sight of Simon messing about with _his_ tablet. Normally, Baz would grab it away immediately, bitching about his nosy roommate and making semi-dire threats of retaliation. This time though, he just stood there, saying nothing, while the tinkling calliope-esque background music of the game played and Simon flicked his finger across the screen. Simon didn’t think it was just his imagination that Baz seemed to somehow relax into irritation as he watched.

Simon hadn’t really thought this through, but this reaction wasn’t what he’d expected. He could try to work with it though, so he said, lazily, “I _said_ you should put a password on it.”

Baz snorted and moved at last, to empty his dirty sport clothes into his hamper. “You’re a tosser,” he said, and again, Simon had the impression of strangely relieved annoyance. Baz tossed the now empty duffel bag onto his bed and held out a hand. “Give it back, you git.”

Simon let the virtual kittens die in a splat of sound and color, and sat up, holding up the tablet and shaking it slightly. “Come get it,” he said.

Baz blinked at him a moment, then reached for it, but Simon pulled it back, and raised his eyebrows tauntingly. Frowning, Baz snatched again, and missed as Simon jerked it away easily.  

“Come now, _Basil,”_ Simon said, chiding. “ _I know_ you can do better than that.”

Baz froze, his eyes narrowing, and glanced fleetingly at the door. Simon was barely considering rolling his eyes, when suddenly Baz moved, _darted_ , almost too quickly to see, plucked the tablet right out of Simon’s hands, and was back on the other side of the room, turning to place it on his desk and saying, smugly, “I’ll thank you to leave my things be, Snow.”

Simon sat absolutely still, feeling utterly stunned. His breath caught, and something flipped over in his belly, and—he felt warm, almost dizzy. So _fast_ , and half his brain seemed flooded with battle adrenaline just to see it. _(Anything that fast is dangerous, watch out…)_ The other half felt like he’d been knocked to the ground, was thinking, _finally,_ for some reason, and Simon didn’t really understand why. He only knew that it made him feel off balance, confused (fond even?), and it was probably important to fix that, so of course he had to press ahead immediately.

Without thinking, he pushed himself up from the bed (Yeats, he felt so _slow,_ compared to what he’d just seen) and moved right up behind Baz, into his roommate’s space, not quite touching him, but close enough to feel his body heat—or maybe that was Simon’s heat, reflecting off Baz, vampires were cooler than humans, weren’t they? He’d been too preoccupied to notice, before, in the locker room.

Baz turned, and jerked in surprise to see him so close, blinking his grey eyes that looked huge from this near. Simon could practically see his pupils widen. Good.

“Crowley, Baz, that was _hot_ ,” Simon blurted. _Oops_. ‘ _Hot’?_ _Really?_ Well, yeah, and messed up or not, now Simon realized he really rather wanted to jump on Baz, wanted to pull him closer, wanted to feel his hair and press his face into his neck, slide a hand under the edge of his collar again…. And that was really not playing it cool, by anyone’s definition, was it.

“Wh-what?” But Baz was stammering, and shifting backward, leaning awkwardly with one hand on the desk surface, so at least Simon could pretend it was all part of the plan.

“You heard me.” He smirked, and raked his gaze up and down Baz, blatantly. He could see the flutter of Baz’s pulse at his neck, hear his breath hitch. He suddenly remembered the sound Baz had made, earlier, had choked on, when his knees gave out… and wanted, with a ferocity that confused him, to hear it again. Or something. It was all so odd.

“I-I don’t know what you— _oh._ ” Baz’s voice cut off as Simon reached over and drew his fingers up over the backs of Baz’s fingers, up the back of his hand, and back down. Baz’s skin was dry, a little cool, not chilled or anything. Baz seemed to be holding his breath, but Simon could feel his skin twitch slightly. “I… I thought maybe we were going to pretend it didn’t happen.”

Simon snorted, half a laugh. “Why would we do that?”

Baz raised an eyebrow in a valiant, if failing, attempt at disdain. “Now, now, Snow, denial can be very useful.” Simon just rolled his eyes. “But in lieu of that… I suppose we should talk about it?”

Simon hummed, neutrally. It had almost been a question, Baz’s voice rising at the end, but that might’ve just been from the way Simon had turned his hand over and was now skimming his fingertips from the tip of Baz’s middle finger, up over his palm, over the blue veins on the inside of his wrist, over the wiry tendons on the underside of his forearm.

“Snow.” Baz’s hand caught Simon’s wrist, not hard, but stilling it, and Simon looked up. “I can’t _think_ when you do that.”

“Good.”

Baz gave a shaky sigh, shaky with annoyance no doubt. “Not _good_ , I need to _think_ , we need to....”

Fine. Simon pulled away and crossed his arms. “What, have some kind of _heart to heart?”_ He said it as scornfully as possible, and laughed.  

Baz scowled, and crossed his own arms. “Just a talk. Just… just, what _was_ all that?”

Simon shrugged. He didn’t particularly want to think about it, but he stalled for time anyway, turning and sitting in the windowsill between their desks. “Six years of pigtail-pulling flirting, coming to a head?” he offered, airily, as he pulled his knees up and leaned against the glass.

Baz rolled his eyes, and lowered himself into his desk chair. “Convenient history rewrite there, don’t you think? You’ve _never_ flirted with me before today.”

Simon noted his wording, and the conviction behind it— _dear Crowley, how long has this been going on for you, Pitch?_ he wondered—but chose not to push it right now. Seeing as his present survival possibly depended on Baz’s embarrassing crush, he wasn’t going to tease him about it. Yet. Not sure what to say, he looked out the window, at the Great Lawn far below, at the trees of the Forest, across it. The morning light was flattening towards midday. He wondered what time it was, if he’d missed breakfast. Not that he was hungry anyway, not that he really cared.

“And anyway,” came Baz’s voice, hesitant. “I didn’t mean _just_ that, I meant—everything, I mean—”

Simon did not want to know what exactly he meant by _everything_ so he cut in. “It was just some snogging, Baz. Crowley, I don’t know why you sound so bloody concerned. It’s no big deal, you’re a good kisser, and—oh, who _cares?”_ Simon demanded suddenly. He hoped it sounded like exasperation and not like anything else. (Nerves. Fear. Despair. Whatever.) “It doesn’t matter _why_ it happened, does it?” For a moment he felt exhaustion so intense it was nauseating. _Can’t do this, any of it, can’t, can’t think about it, can’t, why can’t I just—_

Baz’s chair creaked, and Simon looked up. Baz was shifting uneasily, his fingers fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. He was looking pointedly away from Simon, his teeth catching on his bottom lip, and his expression was… almost soft, a weird contrast with his sharp cheekbones, with his bone structure… He looked the polar opposite of threatening. _He’s afraid,_ Simon realized abruptly, and his stomach lurched oddly. _Well, of course he is._ But somehow, it wasn’t translating to hostility. _Oh god. Maybe I_ will _be able to pull this off._  

Before Simon could think of what to say, Baz spoke in a low voice. “So what are you going to do?”

Simon leered a little, purposefully. “I can think of a few things.”

Baz’s gaze flicked over briefly, then away. “You know what I mean. Now that you… know. About me.”

Simon shrugged. Carefully, he told himself. Casual. This was the tricky bit. “I told you, I’ve known a long time. I’m not going to do anything. I’m not going to tell anyone. It’s not like you’re evil or anything, not really.”

Baz said nothing, but he went abruptly still in a way that made part of Simon’s brain zero in, like a pointer dog. _What’s that about?_ Simon wondered. He filed it away for later thought.

“You won’t tell anyone.” Baz wasn’t quite disbelieving, but he still wouldn’t meet Simon’s eyes.

Simon shook his head. “Nope. I mean… if it’ll make you feel better, I could accept bribes in the form of… more of this sort of thing.” He gestured between them, his tone just a little teasing. _What exact sort of thing is that, Snow?_ his brain tried to ask him. _Snogging? Or what?_ He ignored it.

Baz looked at him sidelong. “So… you want to keep doing… this.”

“Yeah. Sure.”

“‘Yeah’? ‘Sure’? Let’s not be too enthusiastic, there, Snow.”

“What do you want, some kind of declaration of everlasting love?”

Baz choked a little, coughed, then made a face. “Don’t be such a wanker.”

“Well, then.”

“It just doesn’t sound like much of a bribe or an incentive or whatever if your reaction is ‘yeah, sure.’” He said the last in a dull, flat mockery of Simon’s voice.

“Hmm. I didn’t say it like that.” Simon eased himself up off the sill and casually sauntered over, just slowly enough to draw Baz’s attention thoroughly.

He could do this. He used to be good at it.

“It was more like….” He put his hands on the arms of Baz’s chair and leaned in, over him, closer, closer, watching the other boy’s face. He could see Baz swallow, hear his breath stutter, see him blink rapidly.

Simon angled his mouth in, saw Baz’s lips part slightly, then pushed past him, their cheeks brushing, and, a suppressed giggle straining his voice, said into his ear, “Yeah. Sure.” He was tempted to crawl into Baz’s lap, right then, but instead he moved up against his thigh, pressing close for a moment, before leaning back enough to see his face.

Baz’s pupils were huge and dark, and the left side of his mouth tugged upwards. “All right,” he said, and he sounded both amused and breathless. “Yeah. Sure.”

Simon grinned a little, and then pulled away, standing up straight.

“Okay. But not right now. I have to go to the dining hall.” And to shower, he thought, but he didn’t say that. “Maybe later today….”

“A-all right,” Baz said, blinking.

Who knew it would be so easy to make Basilton Pitch stammer? Simon thought. All these years, we could’ve… He stopped thinking, and turned to his dresser, pulling out a change of clothes and stuffing it into his knapsack. “Also, we should have rules.”

“Rules?”

“Yeah.” Simon tried to think of some. Rules were a good idea, right? _No kissing on the mouth,_ he thought briefly, and rolled his eyes at himself. A little late for that. Also it was way too _Pretty Woman_ , made him feel even more like a… He stopped that thought, too, and went instead with: “Nobody needs to know, yeah?”

“You already said you weren’t going to—”

Simon cut him off. “Yeah I did. About _that_. And I won’t. And nobody needs to know about this, either.” He waved his hand again, gesturing between them. It was logical, right? “It’s no big deal, and everyone knows we hate each other. They’d get suspicious if we’re all of a sudden….”

Thank Crowley Baz decided it was his turn to interrupt, because Simon had no idea where he was going with that. “Fine, whatever,” he said, annoyed, but hurried. He didn’t follow it up with any conditions of his own, though.

“And not in the room.” It came out of his mouth without him even thinking, but immediately Simon felt better. Not in here. Definitely not in here. It was too… just too. It was where they slept and sniped at each other and there were soft beds and what would Baz expect exactly?

Baz raised one eyebrow. “What?”

“No snogging in the room.” Yes. Better to hide in some empty classroom, or in one of the odd alcoves with the arrow-slit windows. Somewhere with rough stone walls, somewhere he could bite Baz’s lip or slam him up against the wall without worrying about triggering the stupid Anathema and getting expelled. Quick and hard and finished. More fitting. Somewhere they didn’t have to be soft with each other. Because that was a terrible idea. Simon didn’t do soft. “Wouldn’t want it to get weird.”

Baz snorted. “A little late for that.”

Simon finished grabbing his soap, and a book for later so he could appease Penelope about studying. “Also there’s the Anathema,” he said, as he slung his knapsack over his shoulder.

“What about it?” Baz scowled, then looked confused. “I thought you’d want… I mean. It’s safer in here. For you.”

Simon rolled his eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he said, as dismissively as he could. “I’ll find you later, then.” And then walked out, feeling Baz’s gaze on him but refusing to look at his face.

**Author's Note:**

> My heart sings, my crops are watered, and my skin is clear because of the first fan work based on this story. (Is this living the dream? I think this is living the dream.) 
> 
> [There is a great chapter one illustration here,](http://franuary.tumblr.com/post/150820760820/its-criminal-that-there-isnt-more-fanart-from) commissioned by the delightful [franuary](http://franuary.tumblr.com) and drawn by the talented [sadfishkid](http://sadfishkid.tumblr.com)!


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